“That’s not so good,” George said. He looked around the tavern, then back to Paul. “Would you want Thessalonica defended by the likes of us?”

“If I say no to that, you people will throw things at me,” Paul replied, a smile stretching his face in unfamiliar directions, “but if I say yes I’ll be lying. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“I will have two mugs of wine after all,” Dactylius said, as if that were a matter more important than the regular garrison’s leaving Thessalonica.

While the taverner filled his mug with a dipper, George pondered the question he’d asked. In due course, he told Paul, “Maybe you ought to join the militia, too. Then you’d have no one but yourself to blame for whatever might go wrong.”

“Aye, maybe I ought to at that,” Paul said. “I don’t have forty years on me yet, and if I’m no Hercules, I’m no tun of suet, either, like some people I could name.” He looked pointedly toward Sabbatius.

The chubby militiaman glared right back. “Step out into the street and we’ll talk some more about that,” he offered.

Paul reached under the counter and pulled out a stout club studded with nails. He set it on the bar. “If I step out into the street, I do my talking with this,” he said. Sabbatius’ sword was a better weapon, but he didn’t push it, peering down into his mug of wine instead. Paul grunted and put the club away.

“You do join the militia, join our company,” George said. “And bring your friend there.” He tapped the bar to show what he meant. “Rufus sees that club, he won’t just let you join, he’ll try to steal it from you.”